


Grace

by tafih



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Gen, Not anti-Bran, Not anti-Daenerys, Post S8, Queen Sansa, Sansa-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 12:16:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18894466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tafih/pseuds/tafih
Summary: Tyrion advocates for a ruler.One of mercy and competence. One he knows can rule and rule well.(Rewrite of the Council scene/Last episode)





	1. Chapter 1

“I suppose you want the crown,” the ass named Edmure Tully tosses into the open once the laughter dies.

“Me? The Imp?” His voice sounds broken and heavy. He shakes his head slightly. “Half the people hate me for serving Daenerys. The other half hate me for betraying her. Can’t think of a worse choice.”

“Who then?” Davos asks, breaching the chilly air.

The Imp looks down at his shackles, his face twists in thought and burden. “I’ve had nothing to do but think these past few weeks. About our bloody history. About the mistakes we’ve made.”

He begins to walk to them.

“What unites people? Armies? Gold? Flags?” He shakes his head.

“ _Stories_. There’s nothing in the world more powerful than a good story. Nothing can stop it. No enemy can defeat it. And who has a better story than Sansa Stark, of Winterfell?”

Sansa raises her eyes at the man who was once her husband. Her surprise does not manifest in form, only in her gaze which transfixes upon him.

His eyes are full of emotion, though she cannot distinguish what kind.

“The girl who came to the capital with stories of love and knights; then suffered every tragedy,” he continues. “Who watched her father beheaded. Who was trapped within these very walls by two murderous tyrants and every other threat between them.”

She feels all gazes turn to her and she feels their burn.

“Who was beaten in court but who returned everyday with a smile on her lips. Who treated people who spat on her with kindness when they needed it.”

All she can think is how he knows. How could he have known?

“Who was married off again and again, like cattle. Who wandered the kingdom in disguise. Who made it back to Winterfell on her own terms, with her own efforts.”

She turns to Brienne, wondering if she had told him her history. The proud smile on the first female knight of Westeros explains everything.

Now she can identify the emotion swelling in Tyrion as he approaches her.

It is pride.

“Then she takes up her claim in the North and does so with mastery. The North knows her,” Tyrion gestures to Bran and Arya, who both nod in acknowledgment. “The South knows her.” He lifts his shackles about in the Southron air. “The Riverlands, the Westerlands, the Eyrie, and even the Wall all have been graced by knowing her.”

She cannot believe that the men around her as they say nothing in disagreement.

“Sansa Stark knows all our histories, all of our stories, our wars, weddings, births, massacres, famines. Our triumphs and our defeats. Our past. Yet she did not confine herself to them, to our mistakes. She wrote her own story, one of peace and strength, of love and compassion. Who better to lead us into the future than one who has always held onto the hope of a better one?”

He turns to face Grey Worm, sincerity bleeding from his words. “That is the wheel our queen wanted to break. One of stupid men having to pass their rule to more stupid men. Let us choose a ruler who can rule with her heart and her mind.”

Silence then falls as they all wait for her answer, for her words.

She sees the embittered face of Grey Worm, the scowl on the lips of Yara Greyjoy, the frown across her uncle’s brow.

“I worked against Daenerys,” she confesses. “When Jon Snow had bent the knee and claimed her as our queen, I questioned her claim. I brought an army here. What does that mean for-” she pauses as she chooses her words, “For any possible reign?”

“You protect Missandei,” Grey Worm’s voice splinters through the air.

Again, silence dominates the space, like a thick blanket of sudden fog.

“What?” Sansa whispers, her shock paramount.

“In the crypts, after. Missandei speak to me,” he explains in rough tones. “She know you do not like our queen. But she know you were kind. You protect others in crypt. You fed Unsullied. You fed Dothraki. You protect your house. My queen did the same. _You_ ,” he pauses to close his eyes, to swallow his pain. “You will do same. You will promise.”

Sansa breathes softly, in disbelief that the girl who devoted her entire life to Daenerys had said a kind word about her, that so many people had been watching her.

Tyrion walks to an inch from her knees.

“Sansa?”

“I just want the North to be free,” she finally says.

“I know.”

“And I will not marry - not again.”

“Good. Sons of kings can be cruel and stupid, as you well know.” To the others, he contends, “From now on, rulers should not be born. They will be chosen on this spot, by the lord and ladies of Westeros to serve the realm.”

When the others seem in agreement, he returns to share her gaze. “Sansa, I know you don’t want it. That you only want the North to be free. But, if we choose you,” he says this at length. “Will you wear the crown? Will you lead the Seven Kingdoms to the best of your abilities from this day until your last day? Be the queen that Cersei never was and that Daenerys could have been?” His lips purse together to keep his tears at bay as he pleads her, “Will you write a better story?”

She takes in a breath, looking around at the faces of those who remained behind, those who will have to rebuild a broken world into something new.

She remembers all that her life held before leading to this moment, the horrors she faced and the tears she shed, the skills she learned and the iron armor she crafted around her heart that still bled at the sound of a crying babe. She looks up at Grey Worm, hoping that he sees the gratitude in her.

“I will make reparations for those who bent the knee to _Queen_ Daenerys of House Targaryen, first of her name,” she asserts, her head bowing to the Unsullied warrior and then to Yara. “To the best of my capacity, _if_ and only if...I am chosen.”

Tyrion nods and steps back. “To Sansa of House Stark, I say _aye._ ”

“Aye,” Arya Stark states immediately.

“Aye,” as does Ser Brienne of Tarth.

“Aye,” grins Ser Davos.

“Aye,” her uncle whispers.

“Aye,” says Lord Yohn Royce, quickly followed by a petulant “Aye” from Robin Arryn.

“Aye,” says Lord Gendry Baratheon.

“Aye,” says the Prince of Dorne.

“Aye” says Lord Une.

“Aye” says Lord Ryswell.

“Aye,” says Samwell Tarly of Highgarden.

“Aye,” says Bran, a hint of a smile on his lips.

Then, “Aye,” says Yara Greyjoy, “But we’ll have to talk privately, your Grace.”

Sansa nods her thanks and notes that the Ironborn’s voice is lighter than before. It is a peace offering. She thinks of Theon. She wonders if he is why Yara says her piece.

“All hail Sansa the Good, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, first of her name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

They all rise and proclaim, “All hail the Sansa the Good.”

She was a little bird.

Then a wolf.

Now, she is Queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing against Bran, love the kid, but this just makes so much more sense to me


	2. Chapter 2

She meets with Grey Worm first.

“Tyrion will be a part of my court,” she tells him.

Anger burns in his features. “The man is a criminal. He deserves justice.”

“I know, we all do,” she concedes. “But he knows statecraft better than anyone and he has made many mistakes, least of all with your queen, but this will be his justice. He will spend the rest of his life fixing those mistakes. He won’t have land, a house, a title, or any real power. He will only be there for me.”

“It is not enough. For him. For your brother.”

“I know,” she mutters, then prepares herself for what she needs to say. “That is why I am asking you to stay. See things through.”

His surprise is silent.

“I have never traveled the world like Daenerys. I don’t know the things she knew. All I know is that this kingdom was in ruins when she came and it is still in ruins now. I want to make things better and I know that I can only do that if Tyrion is part of my council,” she provides him, candor in every syllable. “But I also know that how things ended with Daenerys was not right and in that way, I made mistakes too. I wanted to protect my people. I still do. I also know you want to protect yours too and protect her memory.”

He nods.

“I need someone like you, to tell me about the things I don’t know. To remind me that there is always another side to things. That justice comes in many forms. To tell me of the world outside of this kingdom. To make sure people receive justice.”

She puts her hand on his. “I want you to be a general. You can keep an eye on Tyrion, if that pleases you. Be a part of my council so that I uphold the good things that Daenerys believed in.”

For a moment, she thinks he might weep. But his lips are sewn shut for a long time as he thinks.

Eventually, he thanks her for the honor but refuses.

He wants a ship to Naath and she gives it to him, readily.

* * *

She knew he would refuse. But she meant every word of what she said to him.

She shows him her plans for a memorial to the Targaryen line and a grave for Missandei’s body that signifies her as nobility. She also tells him of her decision to send Jon to the Wall.

It is enough to appease him.

* * *

Hours before the Greyjoy fleet sets off to return to the Iron Islands, Sansa catches her at the docks.

Before she even addresses her, Yara says, “I knew Theon went back for you. You were his queen. I knew that. I-I’m the one who bent the knee to Daenerys and he followed me.”

“He was my brother too, no matter what he did,” Sansa mutters.

The sea winds whip between them and Sansa lets the salt air fill her lungs.  “Jon is going to the Wall,” she provides after a pause, thinking about what it means to be brothers.

“Good,” is all Yara says.

Then, Sansa never sees her again.

But they will exchange the occasional letter.

* * *

She wants to make Bran Warden of the North, or at least her Hand, but he says he would rather be the Master of Whispers.

“It suits me better,” he explains.

She has to say goodbye to Jon, feeling his warmth for the last time in one long final embrace and she asks if he can forgive her. “For what?” he asks, “For saving my life for more times I can count?”

“For being an ass when we were children,” she mutters back, not letting him go, remembering her joy when she first saw him at Castle Black. “For telling Tyrion about you.”

“All in the past, Your Grace,” he says warmly, softly, into her cheek. “Don’t start your reign with regrets. And don’t let anyone tell you that you aren’t going to be a good queen. Even me.”

She kisses him and tells him she will miss him. He simply tells her that he is going home.

So she lets him go.

Arya decides to be the Warden in the North. For there must always be a Stark in Winterfell.

But only on the promise until another Stark arrives, then Sansa must sponsor her expeditions to the West.

“But I’m not going to get married,” Sansa reasons. “Wait...will _you_?”

“I doubt it,” Arya says with a shrug. “But, a promise is a promise, right? As soon as one of us has a child, I’m off to the west.”

Sansa laughs and nods.

“Only for you and father, but only just. I don’t think I’ll be as good as you were,” Arya notes with a wry grin, Needle at her hip. They both stare over the port where the ship to White Harbor is anchored. “I’ll be asking you a lot of questions. We’ll go through ravens like you go through lemon cakes.”

Sansa smiles at the jape. “I’ll try and visit as much as possible.”

“Oh, _please_ ,” Arya scoffs. “You have more important things to worry about. We’ll be fine. I can do that much at least, Your Grace.”

Sansa sighs at the sound of her new title. “It still is so strange to me.”

“You deserve it," Arya quickly claims. "The crown, the recognition. All of it. Everything Tyrion said that day, it’s all true.”

Her doubts still rise. She should be in the North, not here, not in the prison of her memories, not with all those who question her sovereignty and her person. “I’m not universally beloved. And Uncle keeps throwing a fit.”

“Well, Uncle can sod himself. And people don’t like you because they don’t know where your strengths truly are. But they will.”

“And where are they? My strengths?” she queries, genuinely wondering. 

“In your heart. You _were_ an ass when we were children but you were always kind when it counted." Arya then asks, in a sudden bout of remembrance. "Do you remember when I used to be afraid of storms?”

“Goodness," she laughs. "I can’t imagine you being afraid of anything.”

“Well, I was - and I used to run to your room and you’d let me in your bed and you would tell me stories and cover my ears until I fell asleep.” Arya looks up at her, knowing that they squandered their chances to be true sisters in the past and will not continue to now. Now that their time is limited again. “You didn’t let that part of you die and _that_ is why you are stronger than I could ever be. It is easy to swing a sword and be a bitch to those who hurt you. It is hard to forgive. It is hard to be kind and good.”

* * *

Sansa the Good, of House Stark, Queen of Westeros, calls for her first Small Council meeting once the chamber is finished.

The castle will be smaller than it once was, so that only whatever is necessary is rebuilt. She makes a point of thanking every man she sees working its reconstruction.

Her councilors rise, apart from her brother, and address her as “Your Grace.”

Ser Brienne of Tarth is Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

Samwell Tarly is the Grand Maester.

Ser Bronn of Highgarden is Master of Coin.

Ser Davos Seaworth is Master of Ships.

Lord Bran the Three-Eyed Raven is the Master of Whispers.

Ser Tyrion Lannister is Master of Law.

With Grey Worm already at sea, Sansa decides that there will be no Master of War. She is sick of war, as it is.

And there is no Hand.

At least, not yet.

She bids them to sit and spies the tome by Tyrion’s elbow. “Is that the text?” she asks of him.

“Yes, Your Grace,” reponds Sam, “The History of the Wars following the death of King Robert.”

“Good, I would like a copy in my chambers as soon as it is available.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Sam says with a bow of his head.  

“Is there any word on the dragon?” she asks them.

Sam notes, “He was last spotted flying east, toward the-”

“The farther away, the better,” Bronn speaks loudly over him.

Sansa frowns at him and he straightens up in his seat.

“Perhaps I can find him,” Bran suggests blankly from his chair. He turns to her, “I will need some time to search.”

“Of course,” she says, nodding at Ser Podrick to wheel him away. She turns to the former sellsword. “Lord Bronn,” she states.

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“As you are now Master of Coin and Lord Paramount of the Reach, with all its lands and wealth, can I call upon you to help the Crownlands and the North with provisions?”

“Yes, you can, Your Grace.”

“Lord Davos, I would like for you to focus our resources on rebuilding our ports and harbors. I want them larger and more systemized for trade with Essos in the future. The armada can wait as the Ironborn is restoring the Iron fleet as we speak. Lord Yara Greyjoy has written to me and three ships will be available for naval purposes until we are ready to construct our own.”

“Of course, Your Grace, we can begin as soon as the Master of Coin can provide funding,” Davos says, a bit sourly.

Bronn returns the favor, in turn, “The Master of Coin looks forward to helping the Master of Ships, but first he has to ensure we’re not wasting coin, or else there won’t be no more coin.”

“Any more,” Davos corrects.

“You the Master of Grammar now, too?”

“Grand Maester!” Tyrion suddenly shouts over them all, while Sansa merely watches at this point. “It is my theory, based on my years of work on the Casterly Rock sewers, that clean water leads to a healthier population. My queen,” he turns to her now. “I would like to suggest a sewer system to be made as the city is being rebuilt.”

She nods, turns to Tarly and ask “Grand Maester, your thoughts?”

“The Archmaester has done some research on this subject and it turns out - “

“The strong live and the weak don’t,” Bronn scoffs.

“Lord Bronn," she bites, though her voice remains steady once she has his attention. "You are here with all of your titles as a courtesy. You speak out of turn or over another Council member again, when it is not necessary, I will remove your titles as quickly as you had received them.”

The man blinks.

“Though, I do appreciate your attempt to keep this council session _lively_. But am I understood?” she asks him, projecting her poise and austerity.  

“Yes, thank you, Your Grace,” he whispers like a beaten dog, obviously surprised that the little lady of the North actually had a bite.

"And concerning the insurance that we are not wasting coin, I agree that it is a valid concern. So I would like for you to appoint three men of integrity to supervise all the ledgers for the funds that are supplied from Highgarden." She turns to Sam. “Maester Tarly, please find the best builders and utilize the architects I have already employed for rebuilding the Keep. They have a better concept of what I would like to see in the city and they can easily include the best plans to implement a sewer system.”

“May I ask what that might be, Your Grace?’ Tyrion questions. “Your ideas?”

“A more structured city. No more winding streets that lead to dead ends. I have brought some plans that were suggested and I would like to go over them with you now.”  She lifts a hand and her aide steps in the room, carrying a multitude of papers and scrolls.

She has the girl lay them all out on the table, to display them to the Council.

“I had asked for tomes on city structures from Oldtown and came across a map of the Yi Tish capital. See here,” she points to the parchment in question. “It utilizes a system of squares. Streets are equal with larger roads running at cross-sections of the city.”

“That would make a sewer system much easier to construct,” Tyrion comments.

“Then it is agreed?” she asks them. “This is how King’s Landing will look from now on?”

“It looks pretty good to me,” Bronn asserts with a swagger. Sam and Brienne enthuse their agreement as well. Davos nods, content and respectful. 

“Good, I will ask you, Grand Maester, to help oversee everything?”

“Absolutely, Your Grace,” Samwell states with an eager smile.

She smiles back.

These are people who she can trust, though she is still skeptical about “Lord” Bronn. These are the people who can rebuild their homeland with her and make it better for their children and their children’s children.

They return to their seats and she asks if there is anything else to discuss.

“There is, my queen, the question about your Hand,” Tyrion declares, awkwardly. “Have you thought about your choice, at all, Your Grace?”

“Yes, I have,” is all she says.

The small council quiets.

“Is there a candidate, your Grace?” Davos asks of her.

“I have decided, at least for the present moment, that I do not require a Hand. You are my Council, you are my hands and my feet. If I believe I require one or if you all truly insist I need one, then I will look for one. Still, know this, I will not be a distant monarch. I will not idle my time away sitting on a throne made of death and destruction. I am a queen and I intend to be a queen of the people.” Then, Queen Sansa looks over her council and states, “As of now, I believe everything is as it should be.”

There is no disagreement there.

They discuss a few more things concerning how to delegate provisions and crops, but they are able to finish most of it by sunset.

At that point, she rises and asserts that they should respite for the rest of the day. “No use working by candle and through fatigue. We will adjourn this session.”

Ser Brienne stands and affirms, “We serve at your pleasure, Queen Sansa, ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. Long may she reign.”

“Long may she reign,” her council repeats. 

* * *

* * *

Long she did reign.

Queen Sansa Stark ruled for forty-seven years and the kingdom rebuilt itself and flourished under her careful and loving watch.

The people called her the Mother and Maiden reborn, even though she kept to the Old Gods.

She established titles for women, schools for the smallfolk, and a university for both the sons and daughters of all houses. She kept court and council without qualm or distress.

The city was rebuilt anew with water running through and beneath everything. Even with a plague that had raged through the Riverlands during her tenth year as queen, Sansa the Good did everything in her power to determine its cause and inoculate her people.

She sent rapists, pillagers, and criminals to the Wall, with notes for her cousin, though she still referred to him as her beloved brother in her missives.

She established trade routes and built more roads.

She took on a consort at one point in time, but as in Dorne, he disappeared from memory and record. In fact, she had never named the father of her child other than to a choice few.

But she bore a son and named him the Warden of the North, the head of a new line of Starks. She reared him until he saw thirteen namedays, then sent him North to his claim. His name was Eddard.

The week after her son arrived in Winterfell, her sister left with a party of three ships and a large crew to sail west beyond Westeros. Arya returned after finding new land with her hulls full of fruits, spices, and gold. At her sister’s urging, Sansa sent no one else in that direction so that the far-off land could preserve itself. Under the sponsorship of the Crown, Arya the Bold set off west three times before she never returned.

Even without her body, Queen Sansa asked her son to set an effigy up in the crypts for his aunt.

Then, when her sixty-seventh nameday approached, she called her council, some of whom had been with her since the beginning, the others were new friends and advisors, and she told them of her decision to abdicate and return to the North to be with her grandchildren.

She called for the Council of Election and all great houses sent their representative. She, herself, advocated for the appointment of the young Dornish prince, the son of Arianne Martell, Prince Mateo, as he was her ward and she knew of his character. Despite some dissension, Mateo Martell was crowned the first king after the Reign of Queens; and the rule of Sansa the Good came to its good end.

She then traveled North, and spent the rest of her days with her son and grandchildren, still indulging in lemon cakes as often as she could.

Her life, reign, and death are not just recorded in _A Song of Ice and Fire_ but in a new story: one of a bittersweet beginning and a just and brighter end.

Full of grace. 

As it should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have always liked Sansa, from S2 on. I could not understand all of the hate people threw her way and while I'm glad she's Queen of the North, I would have loved to see her strengths, her true strengths recognized.  
> That's the main reason why I wrote this and I hope it brings some of you the closure we all desperately needed after that god-awful season.  
> But now, we can move on! hahaha
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
